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A BEAUTIFUL 



POETIC REVIEW 



AND 



FRIENDLY OFFERING 

BY 

J. R. BRAD WAY, M. D., 



ORATOR OF OAKLAND COUNCIL, NO. 192, 
AMERICAN LEGION OF HONOR. 



ISSUED BY 

DEWEY & CO., Publishers, 

San Francisco, Cal. 

1885. 

[copyright.] 



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Publishers' Note. 



The following graceful review, which the author has modestly alluded to 
as "poetical ramblings," was prepared and read in parts, at different times, by 
Dr. Bradway, for entertaining the fraternal council meetings in the line of 
his official duties therein. His hearers were so delighted as to unanimously 
request the publication of the papers that had, from evening to evening, fully 
captivated their appreciation. 

The publisher, being one of the favored listeners, volunteered to issue the 
series in fitting style, in the faith that the little work would meet with decided 
favor as a pleasing literary keepsake — a convenient "catch up," as it weie, 
for easy reading in spare moments, likely to be rarely and popularly relished. 



I. 

Poetry is the language of Nature. It is written in unmistakable charac- 
ters all over the broad pages of her great book, and may be read and under- 
stood by all who have eyes to see, ears to hear, and minds to appreciate the 
sublime, the melodious and the beautiful. Natural poetry in its broadest 
sense includes motion, .sound, color and form. The graceful waving of willow 
boughs in -the gentle wind, the gambols of the young of animals as they skip 
and play in the very joy of young existence, the graceful movements of many 
birds in their easy flight through the ocean of air, and the fleecy summer 
cloud as it floats like a pure spirit over mountain and moor impelled by the 
summer breeze, are all familiar examples of nature's poetry of motion. The 
song of birds, the hum of insects, the babbling of brooks as they wind their 
way over pebbly bottoms, or " slip down among moss-grown stones with end- 
less laughter ; " the murmur of woodland streams, the sighing of the summer 
zephyr through forest and grove ; the roar of the cataract and the wild chorus 
of the storm, are examples of the poetry of sound in the great auditorium of 
Nature. The flowers that deck the hillside and beautify the valley, that are 
spread abroad everywhere in such wild profusion over the broad lap of mother 
earth, are familiar examples of nature's poetry of form and color. In truth 

"The world is full of poetry — the air 

Is living with its spirits; and the waves 

Dance to the music of its melodies, 

And sparkle in its brightness. Earth is veiled 



4 A BEAUTIFUL 

• 

And mantled with its beauty; and the walls 
That close the universe with crystal in, 
Are eloquent with voices that proclaim 
The unseen glories of immensity 
In harmonies too perfect and too high 
For aught but things of celestial mould; 
And speak to man in one eternal hymn 
Unfading beauty and unyielding power. 
Poetry is itself a thing of God; 
He made his prophets poets, and the more 
We feel of poesy do we become 
Like God in love and power." 

II. 

It has been truly said, that whatever excites the imagination, pleases the 
fancy, elevates, purifies, refines and ennobles our being, whether in the world of 
mind or matter, has in it the elements of, and comes legitimately in the do- 
minion of poetry. Three essential poetical sentiments exist in man: The love 
of God, the love of woman and the love of country; the religious, the human 
and the political sentiment. For this reason wherever the knowledge of God 
is darkened, wherever the face of woman is veiled, wherever the people are led 
captive or enslaved, there poetry is like a flame which for want of fuel ex- 
hausts and dies out. On the contrary, wherever God reigns upon his throne in 
all the majesty of his glory, wherever woman rules by the irresistible power of 
her purity, her virtue and her enchantments, wherever the people are free, 
there poetry has modest roses for the woman, glorious palms for the people, 
and splendid wings with which to mount up to the loftiest regions of heaven. 
Baseness, impurity, wrong and injustice give no inspiration, produce no poets 
and no poetry. It has been well said, that " Poets are born, not made." 
Dame N-ature has never granted a franchise for the manufacture of poets; has 



POETIC REVIEW. 5 

never imparted the grand secret of her power to any human institution. 
Education never produced a poet. It may, and does, add some bright feathers 
to his plumage, steadiness and strength to his flight of imagination, polish and 
fullness to his expression; but the beauty and sublimity of thought, the origi- 
nal power and vividness of imagination, the readiness of comparison, and all 
that constitutes the very soul must spring from that superior and peculiar 
cast of mind generally denominated genius. 

Education, however well directed and skillful, could no more produce a 
poet from a common mind than Canova or Praxiteles could carve a Greek 
slave or a Venus de Medici from a block of pumice-stone. As well might the 
clumsy and unwieldy dodo attempt the flight of the strong swift- winged 
eagle as for the common mind to attempt the flight of genius in the sublime 
regions of poesy. An able teacher whose excellent instructions I once had the 
good fortune to enjoy, a profound mathematician, an accurate scientist, and a 
man of most excellent practical sense, was in the habit of lecturing his class 
about once a quarter on writing poetry. He was generally incited to this by 
discovering among the class that tendency, very common among young men 
of a certain age, to court the Muses, mount Pegasus and attempt to ascend 
the rugged heights of Helicon from whose classic summit springs the gushing 
fountains of poesy. 

He was accustomed to say, " There are two things, young gentlemen, I 
would advise you never to attempt unless nature has endowed you with a special 
gift, viz., wit and poetry; for of all failures a failure in an attempt at wit is 
humiliating enough, but at poetry is still more so. Do not attempt poetry 
unless you can think poetry, dream poetry and talk poetry; unless it comes 
to you as it were by inspiration." He once related an anecdote illustrative of 
.the ludicrous absurdity of an attempt at poetry where there is no natural gift. 



6 A BEAUTIFUL 

A school-mate of his in his college days had become infatuated with the idea 
that he could write poetry. And being an aspiring young man he could not 
be satisfied with anything of the common order; it must reach the sublime. 
So with pen and paper duly arrayed, and after much abstract thought, he 
commenced thus : 

"The sun from his perpendicular height 
Shines into the depths of the sea — " 

And here his muse halted and folded her wings. This, though, was so far 
quite satisfactory. It was sublime, it reached the sun ; it was deep, it went 
down into the sea — but it was incomplete, it must be finished. So after a 
long and fruitless effort, feeling that his muse had deserted him, and that he 
could produce nothing that would properly complete the stanza, he walked 
forth into the fields and groves to court inspiration, hoping by his return that, 
his muse might have so plumed her pinions as to be ready to continue her 
flight. During his absence his room-mate came in, and seeing the unfinished 
production, and knowing his friend's penchant for writing poetry, took up the 
pen and completed the stanza, when it read thus : 

"The sun from his perpendicular height 
Shines into the depths of the sea, 
And the fishes begin to sweat 
And cry, why d it, how hot we be!" 

This finished the young man's efforts at poetry. 

III. 

Plodding and toilsome effort alone never produce true poetry. It must 
rise as spontaneously from the mind as perfume from the flower, or warmth 



POETIC REVIEW. 7 

and light from the sunbeam. The Muses are not of the laboring class, and 
Pegasus, their steed, was endowed by the gods with winged feet that he 
might soar to the lofty heights of Helicon and not toil up through the dust of 
earth. 

I think it may be asserted without the fear of successful contradiction, 
that no one ever rose to distinction as a poet who did not in early life give 
unmistakable evidence of possessing the divine gift. Milton distinguished 
himself as a poet before he was 16, and while yet in his teens stood at the 
head of English scholars as a writer of Latin verses. Pope wrote his " Pas- 
torals" at the age of 16. Burns, though the son of a gardener and without 
the advantages of a liberal education, early acquired a reputation as a poet. 

Byron wrote his "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers" before his major- 
ity, in answer to some criticisms by the Edinburgh Review on a collection of 
poems which he had previously written, and his "Childe Harolde" was pub- 
lished before he was 25. Campbell wrote early, and produced his "Pleasures 
of Hope," an admirable poem, which gave him instant fame as a poet, before 
he was 22. 

Bryant, our own beloved and revered bard, who has written some of the 
most beautiful effusions ever written in the English language, commenced 
writing at 12, and produced his "Thanatopsis," a poem that has been read 
and admired wherever the English language is spoken, before he was 19. 

Lucretia Maria Davidson, the child of song, the sweet poetical bud of 
promise, who drooped and died "like the early flower nipped by the unfeeling- 
frost, just as it rose lovely in youth and put its beauties on," composed beauti- 
fully at four years of age: and though she died at 17, had produced many 



S A BEAUTIFUL 

effusions remarkable for sweetness and beauty, showing also sublimity of 
thought. A quotation from one of which I cannot refrain from giving here: 

"Why these restless vain desires 
That constant strive for something more 
To feed the spirit's hidden fires 
That burn unseen, unnoticed soar? 
Well might the heathen sage have known 
That earth must fail the soul to bind, 
That life and life's tame joys alone 
Can never chain the ethereal mind." 

It must be conceded that this is replete with the true spirit of poesy, and 
could not have been produced by one so young, save by inspiration of true 
genius. The sister, Margaret, who died somewhat younger, was equally 
gifted. The immortal spirit panting for its heavenly home could not be im- 
prisoned by the frail earthly tenement by which it was enshrouded. Many 
more examples might be given, but what has been produced is, I think, suffi- 
cent to establish beyond a doubt that true poetry is of divine and not of 
earthly origin. 

IV. 

Having spoken of poetry in a broad and general sense, and referred 
briefly to some of the essential characteristics of poetry and poets, I now pro- 
pose to speak more definitely of the poetry of language or written poetry. In 
doing which I shall call attention to three varieties of composition, viz., prose, 
blank verse and rhyme — the last of which is generally considered the style of 
composition especially entitled to the name of poetry. 

As I have before stated, beauty, truth, sublimity, ideality and compari- 
son constitute the essential elements and soul of poetry. Rhyme and meter 



POETIC REVIEW. 9 

are only characteristics in the garb which poetry generally wears, and with- 
out some of the essential elements which I have mentioned, no more con- 
stitute true poetry than form and clothing would constitute a true man. An 
effigy may have the form and garb of manhood and dissemble well the gen- 
eral appearance, but lacking vitality and soul is only a despicable, hollow 
sham. So composition may have the form and semblance of poetry, but 
without the essential elements which constitute soul it is mere jingle — an 
empty sham. I propose first to call attention briefly to what may be proper- 
ly termed the poetry of prose. As we sometimes find the highest type of 
noble manhood clothed in the coarsest, simplest garb, so we often find the 
very essence and soul of poetry clothed in the humble, plain garb of prose, a 
few examples of which, by way of illustration, I now propose to give : 

The notorious Scotchman, Rob Roy, having incurred the displeasure of 
the constituted authorities by some grave offense against the law — which was 
greatly magnified by his enemies — was urged by his personal friends, who 
were fearful he might come to grief, to leave the country ; but to all their en- 
treaties he replied emphatically, No. Said he, "Should I do so, the very stones 
would cry out against me. The heather upon which I have trod while living 
shall bloom over my grave when I am dead." Unflinching patriotism and 
love of home and an unshaken determination to sleep beneath the flowers 
whose beauty and fragrance had charmed him while living could hardly have 
been expressed in language more truly poetical. 



V. 

The Highlanders of Scotland are deeply imbued with sentiments of 
poetry and romance. The rugged mountains, the romantic glens and beauti- 



io A BEAUTIFUL 

ful lakes set like mirrors amid their mountain fastnesses, and the general 
wildness of the scenery, give a charm to their bold, free life well calculated 
to inspire sentiments of patriotism, poetry and romance. In like manner 
with the North American Indian. There is something in the solitary gran- 
deur of the forest and the almost boundless expanse of the plains where he is 
accustomed to roam — in his intimate communion with nature in all the wild 
grandeur and boundless beauty of her primitive state, well calculated to fill 
the mind — all uncultured though it may be — with sentiments of poetry and 
romance. Hence, we often find among specimens of Indian oratory examples 
of lofty and sublime poetry. Red Jacket, the once famous chief of the 
Senecas, and one of the most distinguished of Indian orators, when passing 
through the State of New York — once the home and now the resting-place 
of his fathers — when very old was repeatedly urged to give a specimen of his 
oratorical powers; but feeling that age and the fire-water of the white man 
had greatly dimmed the brightness of those intellectual fires that once burned 
with such brilliancy, could not be prevailed on to attempt a speech. For this 
unwillingness he on one occasion offered the following remarkable apology : 
Rising in his place with something like the native grandeur and dignity of 
former years (for he still retained much of physical vigor), he said, "I am an 
aged hemlock. The winds of nearly a hundred winters have blown through 
my branches, and I am dead at the top." What language could express more 
poetically that period in man's life when the fire of genius burns low, when 
the brilliant intellect has fallen into the sere and yellow leaf while the physi- 
cal powers are yet comparatively vigorous ? Any one acquainted with the 
forests of our middle and northern States, who has seen the sturdy hemlock 
with its dry and leafless crown, while all below was green and vigorous, will 
readily perceive the striking beauty and truthfulness of the illustration used. 



POETIC REVIEW. u 

VI. 

But no man, perhaps, who has written in the English language, has in- 
terwoven more of the beauty and true sentiment of poetry in his prose writ- 
ings than our own much-loved and respected countryman, Washington Irving. 
There is about his writings a clearness of style, a beauty and simplicity of 
language, a purity of sentiment and expression, a truthfulness and vividness 
of illustration that constitutes the very soul and essence of poetry, a few ex- 
amples of which I will here present. From his sketch entitled "The Wife," 
we have the following: "As the vine which has long twined its graceful foli- 
age about the oak and been lifted by it into sunshine, will, when the hardy 
plant is rifted by the thunderbolt, cling round it with its caressing tendrils 
and bind up its shattered boughs, so is it beautifully ordered by Providence 
that woman, who is the mere dependent and ornament of man in his happier 
hours, should be his stay and solace when smitten by sudden calamity ; wind- 
ing herself into the rugged recesses of his nature, tenderly supporting his 
drooping head, and binding up the broken heart." Again from the sketch 
entitled the "Broken Heart:" "How many bright eyes grow dim, how many 
soft cheeks grow pale, how many lovely forms fade away into the tomb, and 
none can tell the cause that blighted their loveliness ! As the dove will clasp 
its wings to its side and cover and conceal the arrow that is preying upon its 
vitals, so it is the nature of woman to hide from the world the pangs of 
wounded affection. * * * She is like some tender tree, the pride and 
beauty of the grove; graceful in its form, bright in its foliage, but with the 
worm preying at its heart. We find it suddenly withering when it should be 
most fresh and luxuriant. We see it drooping its branches to the earth, and 
shedding leaf by leaf, until, wasted and perished away it falls, even in the 
stillness of the forest, and as we muse over the beautiful ruin we strive in 



13 A BEAUTIFUL 

vain to recollect the blast or thunderbolt that could have smitten it with 
decay." 

It was of this sketch, "The Broken Heart," that Byron once said he 
"Avanted to hear an American read it," and when an American read it to him 
he melted into tears, remarking, "You see me weep ; I have but few tears for 
this world, but I always weep for the broken heart, and I do not believe 
Irving ever wrote that piece without weeping." The following from his 
"Traits of Indian Character" is full of poetical beauty : "But if courage in- 
trinsically consists in the defiance of danger and pain, the life of the Indian is 
a continual exhibition of it. * * * As the ship careers in fearful single- 
ness through the solitudes of ocean; as the bird mingles among clouds and 
storms and wings its way, a mere speck, across the pathless fields of air, so 
the Indian holds his course — silent, solitary, but undaunted, through the bound- 
less bosom of the wilderness. * * * He gains his food by the hardships 
and dangers of the chase ; he wraps himself in the spoils of the bear, the 
panther and the buffalo, and sleeps among the thunders of the cataract." 

I find so many passages of exquisite beauty and so replete with poetical 
sentiment in perusing the writings of this author that I scarcely know where 
to stop. What I have given, however, I deem sufficient to illustrate the idea 
presented and to show the character of the composition which I have thought 
proper to denominate the poetry of prose. There is, however, one other author 
whose prose writing contains so much of real poetic sentiment and exquisite 
beauty that I cannot refrain from introducing to your notice one quotation. 
The author is the late G. D. Prentice, formerly of the Louisville Journal, and 
the extract is from a piece of rare beauty of style and language, which he 
wrote many years since, entitled "The Thunder Storm :" "My dread of, 



POETIC REVIEW. ij 

thunder had its origin in an incident that occurred when I was a boy of ten 
years. I had a cousin, a girl of the same age of myself, who had been the 
constant companion of my childhood. Strange that after the lapse of so 
many years that countenance should be so familiar to me. I can see the bright 
young creature, her eyes flashing like a beautiful gem, her free locks stream 
ing as with joy upon the rising gale, her cheek glowing like a ruby through 
transparent snow. Her voice had the melody and joyousness of a bird's, and 
when she bounded over the woodland hill, or fresh green valley, shouting a 
glad answer to every voice of nature, and clapping her little hands in the very 
ecstasy of young existence, she looked as if breaking away, a free nightin- 
gale , from earth, and going off where all things are beautiful and happy like 
her." The whole piece is a gem in prose composition of rare beauty, but this 
must suffice. 

VII. 

Having dwelt sufficiently upon what I have denominated the poetry of 
prose, I now propose to call attention to that style of poetical composition 
called blank verse, which differs from the poetry of prose, principally, in add- 
ing what may be fitly denominated an element of form, viz., meter, giving to 
each line a certain number of accented syllables. Blank verse, containing thus 
one more element of finished poetry, may be considered the higher order of 
composition, and therefore better adapted to the expression of the grand, the 
beautiful and the sublime in thought and action. It is the style of composi- 
tion seldom or never attempted by the tyro and the uncultivated, but belongs 
especially to the cultured and the scholastic. Milton's "Paradise Lost" and Pol- 
lock's "Course of Time" are familiar and excellent examples of this style of poeti- 
cal composition, abounding in sublimity of thought, and beauty and force of 



i 4 A BEAUTIFUL 

expression— a few examples of which I will here give by way of illustration. 
Eve, upon leaving Paradise, thus gives expression to her grief : 

" O unexpected stroke, worse than of death ! 
Must I leave thee, Paradise? thus leave 
Thee, native soil, these happy walks and shades 
Fit haunt of gods ? where I had hoped to spend, 
Quiet though sad, the respite of that day 
That must be mortal to us both." 



It would seem that no other style of composition could so forcibly express 
the deep, impassioned grief of Eve on her departure from Paradise. The fol- 
lowing quotation from Pollock will illustrate the descriptive power of this 
style of composition: 

" He touched his harp and nations heard entranced. 
As some vast river of unfailing source, 
Rapid, exhaustless, deep, his numbers flowed, 
And opened new fountains in the human heart; 
Where fancy halted, weary in its flight 
In other men, his, fresh as morning rose, 
And soared untrodden heights, and seemed at home 
Where angels bashful looked. Others, though great, 
Beneath their argument seemed struggling while 
He from above descending stooped to touch 
The loftiest thought; and proudly stooped, as though 
It scarce deserved his verse. With Nature's self 
He seemed an old acquaintance, free to jest 
At will with all her glorious majesty." 

A more grand and complete description could scarcely be given of a great 



POETIC REVIEW. 15 

poet than this. Another quotation, quite different in character, will show the 
power of this style of composition for varied expression and vivid delineation: 

"'Twas pitiful to see the early flower 
Nipped by the unfeeling frost, just as it rose 
Lovely in youth and put its beauties on." 

This is full of tender sympathy and exquisite beauty. Again: 

"Sad was the sight of widowed, childless age, 
Weeping. I saw it once. Wrinkled with time, 
And hoary with the dust of years, an old 
And worthy man came to his humble roof. 
His lonely cot was silent, and he looked 
As if he could not enter. On his staff, 
Bending, he leaned, and from his weary eye — 
Distressing sight ! a single tear-drop wept. 
None followed, for the fount of tears was dry. 
Alone and last, it fell from wrinkle down 
To wrinkle, till it lost itself: drunk by 
The withered cheek on which again no smile 
Would come or drop of tenderness be seen." 



It would, I think, be difficult to conceive of a picture of deeper woe and more 
utter desolation than the one the poet has here given. For further illustration 
I shall quote briefly from the writings of the late George D. Prentice, for- 
merly of the Louisville Journal, whose imagination and pen have given us 
some productions not excelled by any other writer in the English language. 
In a poem of his, entitled "The Closing Year," we find the following: 



i6 A BEAUTIFUL 

"'Tis midnight's holy hour — and silence now 
Is brooding like a gentle spirit o'er 
The still and pulseless world. Hark ! On the winds 
The bell's deep tones are swelling; 'tis the knell 
Of the departed year. No funeral train 
Is sweeping past, yet, on the stream and wood, 
With melancholy light, the moonbeams rest 
Like a pale, spotless shroud; the air is stirred 
As by a mourner's sigh; and on yon cloud 
That floats so still and placidly through heaven, 
The spirits of the seasons seem to stand. 
Young Spring, bright Summer, Autumn's solemn form 
And Winter with his aged locks, and breathe 
In mournful cadences, that come abroad 
Like the far wind-harp's wild and touching wail, 
A melancholy dirge o'er the dead year 
Gone from the earth forever. 'Tis a time 
For memory and for tears." 

This is replete with beauty, pathos, and solemn sublimity. Another 
quotation from the same author, somewhat different in sentiment, will not, I 
presume, be uninteresting. It is from a piece entitled "The Stars." Thus: 

" Those burning stars ! What are they? I have dreamed 
That they were blossoms on the tree of life, 
Or glory flung back from the outspread wings 
Of God's archangels — or that yon blue sky, 
With all its gorgeous blazonry of gems, 
Were but a banner waving o'er the earth 
From the far wall of heaven; and I have sat 
And drank their gushing glory till I felt 
Their flash electric trembling with deep 



POETIC REVIEW. 17 



And strong vibrations down the living wire 

Of chainless passion — and my very pulse 

Was beating high, as if a spring were there 

To buoy me up where I might ever roam 

'Mid the unfathomed vastness of the sky, 

And dwell with those high stars, and see their light 

Poured down upon the blessed earth like dew 

From the bright wings of naiads." 



'& 1 



This is full of beautiful imagery, touching pathos, and unmeasured sub- 
limity. It would be difficult to conceive anything more beautiful in language, 
more lofty in thought. The poet's muse seems to soar on outspread wing 
among the distant stars. This I deem sufficient to illustrate the power and 
adaptability of this style of composition to the expression of the beautiful in 
thought, action, and emotion. 

VIII. 

I now pass to the consideration of that style of poetical composition which, 
in addition to the poetical elements heretofore considered, adds that of rhyme, 
which is considered by many readers the crowning element in poetical com- 
position. It does indeed give a charm to poetical composition not otherwise 
attainable ; but it is only an element of form, and is to poetry what exquisite 
finish is to statuary — it rounds and softens, adding beauty of finish to grand- 
eur of outline. Blank verse may be said to possess more rugged grandeur; 
rhyme more finished beauty. Perhaps I cannot better illustrate the differ- 
ence than by giving the following quotations, in the different styles of compo- 
sition, on the same subject: 

" Oh, Winter! ruler of the^inverted year, 
Thy scattered hair withsleet-like ashes'fill'd, 



i8 A BEAUTIFUL 



Thy breath congeal'd upon thy lips, thy cheeks 
Fringed with a beard made white with other snows 
Than those of age; thy forehead wrapped in clouds, 
A leafless branch thy scepter, and thy throne 
A sliding car indebted to no wheels 
But urged by storms along its slipp'ry way — 
I love thee, all unlovely as thou seem'st, 
And dreaded as thou art." 



Again: 



" Gently as lilies shed their leaves 
When Summer's days are fair, 
The feath'ry snow comes floating down, 
Like blossoms on the air; 
And o'er the world like angels' wings, 
Unfolding soft and white, 
It broods above the brown sear earth 
And fills with forms of light 
The dead and desolate domain, 
Where Winter holds his iron reign." 

Though both styles of composition are susceptible of great variations, 
yet the above illustration will give a tolerable idea of the difference in expres- 
sion. And here I would remark that in the consideration of written poetry, 
for the purpose of illustration, I have thought proper to divide its elements 
into two classes. The first I would denominate the soul or essential essence ; 
the second, the form and features, in some instances only the garb it wears. 
The first comprises imagination, ideality, sublimity, comparison, truth, purity 
and beauty ; the second class comprises rhythm and meter in their several varie- 
ties. The highest quality of all these elements united constitutes the most 
perfect type of poetical composition. But it is not necessary that every speci- 



POETIC REVIEW. iq 

men of poetry that claims rank as genuine should contain all the elements 
above-mentioned, but sufficient of the first class to constitute soul that is 
easily recognized, and of the second to give comeliness of form and features. 
Indeed it is possible to have the soul without the form and features, as, in the 
poetry of prose ; but the reverse is hardly possible, for rhythm and meter, how- 
ever perfect, without some element of the first class could be little else than 
mere doggerel or senseless jingle. Genuine poetry must have soul. 



IX. 



There is no element in poetical composition so abused and actually mur- 
dered by the ignorant and presumptuous as the element of rhyme. Persons 
who would not attempt to write a sentence in plain prose, will, under the in- 
spiration of some unusual occasion, write what they term poetry, but which is 
in reality the most nonsensical jingle, coming about as near the genuine arti- 
cle as the rattling of marbles in a tin can comes to genuine music. 

I very well remember, many years ago, when but an idle boy, it was 
customary for the peddlers of small wares and Yankee notions, to hawk about 
the streets what were called "ballads," a rhythmical detail of some remark- 
able incident, an accident accompanied with loss of life, a murder, an execu- 
tion, or some incident with harrowing details. A couple of stanzas of one of 
these productions I still remember. It has clung to my memory through the 
many years that have since gone by on the wings of light and shadow. The 
inspiring incident was as follows : A party of young people, in the buoyancy 
of youth, were out enjoying a sleigh ride, when crossing a stream the ice 
gave way and all were drowned. The stanzas ran as follows : 



20 A BEAUTIFUL 

" Schoharrie stream they sought to cross, 
Not knowing they would suffer loss; 
The ice gave way and down they went, 
And thus their life and breath was spent. 
Under the ice they all did go, 
Which caused their friends the deepest woe; 
And several anxious days rolled round, 
Before their bodies could be found. 

The ballad continued, describing the funeral, the grief of the friends and 
neighbors, and enumerated the virtues of the departed, but I will not attempt 
to give any more, as it has so nearly faded from my memory that I could not 
do it justice. 

But this class of poets and this style of poetry is so admirably taken off 
in what is known as the "Bedott Papers," that I am sure I cannot do better 
than quote from them by way of illustration. 

It will be remembered that Mrs. Bedott was one of those home-made, 
self-constituted poets who feel inspired to write upon every important inci- 
dent that happens in the family or neighborhood. It is generally occasions 
of grief or misfortune that stirs up the muse of this class of poets. Thus, on 
the death of neighbor Bennett, Mrs. Bedott wrote the following " consolin' 
varses to his afflicted widder." 

" O Gandefield, 

Where is thy shield 
To guard against grim death ? 

He aims his gun 

At old and young, 
And fires away their breath. 



FOE TIC RE VIE W. 21 

" One summer's day 

For to tend to his hay 
Mr. Bennett went to the medder, 

Fell down from the stack, 

Broke the spine of his back, 
And left a mournin' widder. 

" 'Twas occasioned by his landin' 
On a jug that was standin' 

Alongside of the stack of hay. 
Some folks say 'twas what was in it 
Caused the fall of Mr. Bennett, 

But there aint a word of truth in what they say." 

On another occasion, hearing that Elder Sniffles, a lone widower to whom 
she was becoming very partial, was sick, she writes as follows by way of con- 
solation : 

" O Reverend Sir, I do declare, 
It drives me al'most to frenzy 
To think o' you a lyin' there 
Down sick with infiuenzy. 

" O, I could to your bedside fly 
And wipe your weepin' eyes, 
And try my best to cure you up, 
If it wouldn't create surprise." 



But Elder Sniffles recovered, and the old lady's interest in him increased 
so much that 'twas love and not sympathy that inspired her muse when she 
wrote as follows ; 



22 A BEAUTIFUL 

" Ere love had teached my tears to flow 
I was oncommon cheerful, 
But now such misery I do know, 
I'm always sad and fearful. 

" Full forty dollars would I give 
If we had continered apart, 
For though he's made my sperit live, 
He's surely bust my heart." 

But fortunately for the lovers of poetry the old lady did not die of a 
"busted heart," but lived to become a happy, blushing bride, and in the exu 
berance of her joy to enrich the world of literature with the following from 
her gifted pen, addressed to her " fortinit " husband, Shadrack : 

" 'O, Shadrack, my Shadrack !' Priscilla did speak, 
While the rosy red blushes surmantled her cheek, 
And the tears of affection bedazzled her eye, 
' O, Shadrack, my Shadrack ! I'm yourn till I die. 
The heart that was scornful and cold as a stun 
Has surrendered at last to the fortinit one. 
Farewell to the miseries and griefs I've had, 
I'll never desert thee, O Shadrack, my Shad !' " 

After enjoying the sweets of second-hand matrimony for a season, with 
the fire of inspiration still burning brightly in her loyal " buzum," and her 
muse yet poised on half-closed wings, she gives vent to the following : 

" Blest be the day of sacred mirth 
That gave my dear companion birth ; 
Let men rejoice while Silly sings 
The bliss her precious Shadrack brings." 



POETIC REVIEW. aj 

X. 

There is yet another variety of this class of poetry to which I wish to 
call attention that is not inaptly sometimes called " graveyard poetry," from 
the fact that it is generally found on tombstones. It is generally the effusion 
of some affectionate, friend who, inspired by the occasion, gives expression to 
some tender sentiment or commemorates some virtue possessed by the dear one 
now resting quietly beneath the daisies ; or perhaps personates that dear one, 
leaving some words of advice or consolation to the dear bereaved ones left be- 
hind, as the following: 

" Fond parents weep for me no more 
That I no more am given; 
We'll surely meet when life is o'er, 
High up above in heaven." 

Or it may be an ante-mortem production of the one whose virtues and 
tribulations it commemorates, as the following from the pen of Mrs. Bedott. 
When her matters with the elder were in rather a doubtful state, and her 
mind harrowed by the torments of uncertainty, and feeling sure that she 
could not long survive the withering, blighting effect of disappointment, and 
that she might have everything in readiness, she wrote the following for her 
tombstone : 

" Here sleeps Priscilly P. Bedott, 

Late relic of Hezekier; 
How melancholy was her lot ! 

.How soon she did expire ! 
She didn't commit self-suicide, 
'Twas tribbilation killed her; 
O, what a pity she hadn't a-died, 
Afore she met the elder. " 



24 A BEAUTIFUL 

Or it may be a simple statement as to whom the deceased was, and what 
happened to him, and always, of course, in rhyme, as the following: 

" Here lies John Shaw, 
Attorney- at-law ; 
When he died 
The devil cried, 
'Give us your paw, 
John Shaw, attorney-at-law.' " 



This is sufficient for illustration. I have dwelt somewhat upon this kind 
of poetry because there is so much of it afloat — mere trash — no more like the 
genuine article than the ragged cast-off garments of a man stuffed with straw 
and surmounted by a pasteboard mask or a carved pumpkin is like the real 
living, breathing man. 

XI. 

I wish now to call attention to that kind of poetical composition, each 
specimen of which, possessing more or less of the genuine elements of poetry, 
in a fair degree of perfection, is entitled to rank as the genuine article. I have 
heretofore remarked that every specimen of genuine poetry need not neces- 
sarily contain all the elements I have enumerated, but sufficient of the first 
class to give soul, and of the second class to give comeliness of form and 
features. For example, Longfellow's "Psalm of Life:" 

" Tell me not in mournful numbers, 

Life is but an empty dream; 
For the soul is dead that slumbers, 
And things are not what they seem. 



POETIC REVIEW. sj 

"Life is real, life is earnest, 
And the grave is not its goal; 
Dust thou art, to dust returnest, 
Was not spoken of the soul." 

Here we have but a shadow of ideality, combined with a pure and lofty- 
sentiment, and with sublime truth beautifully and forcibly spoken. The 
rhythm and meter are perfect, each word seeming to drop gently into its place 
without study or effort — no transposition or distortion to produce measure or 
meter, but an easy now of language like the musical murmur of a gentle 
stream. The following also from the pen of our own revered Bryant, as plain 
descriptive poetry is equally perfect and beautiful in its way : 

"Chained in the market-place he stood, 

A man of giant frame, 
Amid the gathering multitude, 
That shrunk to hear his name. 

"All stern of look and strong of limb, 

His dark eye on the ground, 
And silently they gazed on him 
As on a lion bound." 

Here, as in the former example, there is no apparent effort to produce 
rhyme or meter, and yet each is perfect, presenting the subject in a manner 
clear and forcible, and in language plain, yet beautiful. 

Equal in meter and rhyme, but superior in the higher elements, is the 
following from the immortal Burns, occurring in his inimitable poem, "Tarn 
O'Shanter": 



ab A BEAUTIFUL 

"Pleasures are like poppies spread,' 
You seize the flower, its bloom is shed; 
Or like the snowflake on the river, 
A moment white, then gone forever. 

"Or like the borealis race, 
That flits ere you can point the place; 
Or like the rainbow's lovely form, 
Evanishing amidst the storm." 

Here we have beauty of language, ideality, sublimity of thought illus- 
trated by truthful comparison. Any one who has plucked a full-blown poppy, 
and with regret seen its bright petals fall ere he had severed it from the 
parent stem, or stood on the bank of a smoothly gliding stream and watched 
the feathery snowflakes as they fell lightly on its dark bosom, or watched the 
constant and rapid changes of the aurora borealis, or the sudden disappear- 
ance of the rainbow, will be convinced of the beauty and truth of the poet's 
illustrations. 

Also the following from the pen of our revered Bryant, as he gazes upon 
the frail form and wan, wasted features of a dying girl — a victim of consump- 
tion: 

"Death should come 
Gently and to one of gentle mould like thee, 

As light winds wandering through groves of bloom 
Detach the delicate blossoms from the tree." 

This is full of beauty, ideality touching pathos, exquisite tenderness, 
and truthful illustration. Any one who has walked among blooming trees and 
seen their delicate blossoms showered down by the gently passing breeze, will 
appreciate the truth, beauty and appropriateness of the poet's illustration. 



POE TIC RE VIE W. 27 

And again, from the gifted pen of Miss Landon, on the same subject, we 

have the following: 

"Day by day, 
The gentle creature died away, 
As parts the odor from the rose — 
As fades the sky at twilight's close — 
She passed, so tender and so fair." 

We can scarcely conceive of anything in language more exquisitely beau- 
tiful and highly figurative. 

XII. 

In the above quotations we have examples of what I regard as the high- 
est type of poetry, possessing all the essential elements. This type and style 
of poetry may be said to bear the same relation to plain prose that the artistic- 
ally finished painting, with all of its beauty of coloring and minuteness of 
detail, does to the plain pencil sketch. 

There is perhaps no better illustration of this than we find in the familiar 
piece, from the pen of Byron, entitled "The Destruction of Sennecharib." 

Sennecharib, King of Assyria, having ravaged portions of Judea and laid 
waste many of her large cities, determined upon the destruction of Jerusalem, 
the great and beautiful city of Judea. To this end he encompassed it with a 
mighty army. Hezekiah, king of Judea, feeling unable to resist so formida- 
ble an enemy, and being greatly in fear that the city would be destroyed, ap- 
pealed earnestly to the God of Israel for divine guidance and protection. The 
Lord of Hosts answered him through the mouth of his prophet, Hosea, saying, 
"The Assyrian shall not injure the chosen city, nor enter its gates; he shall 
not build a bank against it nor even shoot an arrow into it, but shall return 
the way he came to his own country." And so it came to pass, for 185,000 of 



28 A BEAUTIFUL 

his army perished in one night. After which Sennecharib, gathering together 
the remnant, returned the way he came, as the prophet had foretold. 

This is the plain statement of history, which we will now compare with 
the poetical description as given by Byron, that prince of poets: 

"The Assyrian came down like a wolf on the fold, 
And his cohorts were gleaming with purple and gold; 
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea, 
When the deep waves roll nightly on deep Galilee. 

"Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green, 
That host with their banners at sunset were seen; 
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown, 
That host on the morrow lay withered and strewn. 

"For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, 
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; 
And the eyes of the sleeper waxed deadly and chill, 
And their hearts but once heaved, and forever were still. 

"And there lay the steed, with his nostrils all wide, 
But through them rolled not the breath of his pride, 
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf, 
And cold as the spray on the rock-beaten surf. 

"And there lay the rider, distorted and pale, 
With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail; 
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone, 
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown. 

"And the widows of Asher are loud in their wail, 
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal; 
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword, 
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord." 



POE TIC RE VIE W. 29 

What could more forcibly illustrate the cruel rapacity of a conqueror who 
seeks only conquest and rapine, than a wolf, gaunt with hunger, with jaws 
distended and eyes gleaming with the fire of cruelty, descending upon the 
helpless fold, thirsty for the blood of its victims? But let us contemplate 
briefly the picture which the poet has spread out before us. In imagination 
we stand upon the walls of Jerusalem, and what do we behold ? A mighty 
host, an army with banners, chariots and horsemen, extending in every direc- 
tion as far as the eye can reach ; and, as the sun sinks to the horizon, his last 
rays are glinted back by spear and helmet, by saber and shield and battle-axe. 
What could more fitly represent the almost countless host than "the 
leaves of the forest when summer is green," and what more vividly represent 
the miraculous change in this mighty host, which the morrow's sun revealed, 
than "the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown" — the faded 
and withered leaves of the forest when the blighting frost and the fierce winds 
of autumn have sent them dry and withered to the ground? Where a few 
short hours before was the stir and bustle of a mighty army settling down to 
rest, now reigns the stillness and desolation of death — 

"The tents are all silent, the banners alone, 
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown." 

And what, we are led to ask, has produced this mighty change ? 

"The Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, 
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; 
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, 
And the hearts but once heaved, and forever were still." 

What more striking illustration of the effect of a great pestilence or the 



jo A BEAUTIFUL 

fatal simoon of the desert, could be drawn than that which the poet has here 
given — Death spreading his dark wings over the sleeping host and breathing 
his withering breath in the face of each sleeper as he passed? 

But let us draw nearer and examine the details of this terrible picture. 
We behold steeds and riders lying everywhere intermingled in dire confusion, 
and all in the profound stillness of death — 

"The steed with his nostrils all wide, 
But through them rolls not the breath of his pride; 
And the foam of his gasping lies white on the turf, 
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf. 

"And there lies the rider, distorted and pale, 
With the dew on his brow and the rust on his mail." 

Any one who has stood upon a battle-field in the cold gray dawn of a 
morning succeeding a great battle must recognize the truthfulness of the pic- 
ture which the poet has here drawn — a most terrible picture of a most re- 
markable event, which I believe has no parallel in history. 185,000 men 
stretched upon the plain, wrapped in that sleep that knows no waking, is a 
scene of which we can have no adequate conception — 

"The might of the Gentile unsmote by the sword, 
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord." 

XIII. . 

There are instances in which poetry seems the result of supernatural 
inspiration; when a power not of earth seems to direct the poet's thoughts and 
indite his words. There is perhaps no better illustration of this than that 



POETIC REVIEW. 3 , 



wonderfully popular production entitled "Drake's American Flag." The flag 
itself I have always regarded as a thing of sublime inspiration, and the poet's 
conception of its production is not equaled, I think, in the English language, 
one verse of which is as follows : 



" When Freedom from her mountain height 
Unfurled her standard to the air, 
She tore the azure robe of night, 

And set her stars of glory there. 
She mingled with its gorgeous dyes, 
The milky baldric of the skies, 
And striped its pure celestial white 
With streakings of the morning light; 
Then from his mansion in the sun, 
She called her eagle-bearer down, 
And gave into his mighty hand 
The symbol of her chosen land." 



The poet's muse here seems not to toil laboriously up, or to poise on half- 
closed wings, but to spring like an eagle from his mountain crag and soar 
away exultingly on strong and full-spread pinions. 

What more fitting source of the colors of our glorious flag, and the stars 
that deck its azure field like blossoms of light, than the heavens. And what 
more appropriate emblem of free, proud, happy, enterprising America than 
the clear-sighted, strong, swift- winged eagle — the bird of Jove, " Who can 
stem the fury of the northern blast and bathe his plumage in the thunder's 
home" — who is alike at home in the torrid or the frigid zone, on the mount- 
ain or in the valley, wherever the Stars and Stripes float over American soil ? 



?2 A BEAUTIFUL 

There are instances when the poetic mind seems to draw superhuman 
inspiration from the times, the occasion and surrounding circumstances com- 
bined — when the muse seems endowed with eagle's wings, the far-seeing 
vision of the inspired prophet inditing truth and prophecy in "thoughts 
that breathe and words that burn." 

There is, perhaps, no better illustration of this than that grand and 
beautiful effusion, by Mrs. Julia Ward Howe, the "Battle Hymn of the 
Republic." 

It is said that Mrs. Howe had been, for some time during the first year 
of the Rebellion, desirous of producing something from her pen appropriate 
to the times and the occasion, that could be sung to the soul-stirring music of 
" John Brown." 

On one occasion, while the national Capitol was encircled with armies, 
and the whole city was one grand military encampment, where the sound of 
martial music and the measured tramp of soldiers could be heard on every 
side, she was invited by a military friend to visit the encampments around the 
city, and witness the preparations for defence, the drill and parade of "the 
boys in blue." She gladly accepted the invitation, and with a heart swelling 
with patriot emotions, looked upon the serried ranks, the " rows of burnished 
steel;" witnessed the various evolutions and the drill, by which fathers, sons 
and brothers were being prepared for the momentous struggle in which they 
were soon to engage. 

Remaining till after dark, she saw, with a swelling soul, the "watch-fires 
of a hundred circling camps," and she saw, too, the incense ascending from, 
the altars built to Jehovah " in the evening dews and damps," and as she 



POETIC REVIEW. 33 

passed regiment after regiment, and heard, with emotions too deep for utter- 
ance, the inspiring music of "John Brown" swelling up from thousands of 
patriotic throats, she felt justly proud of her great country and its noble 
defenders. Returned to her home, her heart thrilling with that noble Christ- 
ian patriotism that filled the breasts of so many of our noble American 
matrons, manifesting itself in their lives and deeds, she felt more than ever 
desirous of accomplishing the task she had contemplated. That night, when 
she repaired to her couch it was not to sleep. The incidents and scenes of 
the day were constantly before her mind. 

The great wrong and injustice of human slavery, and the wrath of a 
just God that must, sooner or later, be visited upon its advocates and sup- 
porters, were constantly in her thoughts, till she finally arose and wrote, as 
by inspiration, nearly as we now have it, the following sublime effusion: 

Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord; 
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored; 
He hath loosed the faithful lightning of His terrible swift sword; 
His truth is marching on. 

I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps; 
They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps; 
I can see His righteous sentence in the dim and flaring lamps; 
His day is marching on. 

I have read a fiery gospel writ in rows of burnished steel: 
As ye deal with my contemners, so my grace with you shall deal; 
Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel, 
Since God is marching on. 

He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat; 
He is sifting out the hearts of men before His judgment seat. 



34 A BEAUTIFUL 

01 be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet; 
Our God is marching on. 

In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, 
With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me; 
As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, 
While God is marching on. 

For grandeur of thought, .sublimity of conception, keenness of prophetic 
vision, beauty and purity of language — in short, all that is necessary to con- 
stitute genuine poetry, it is not excelled by anything in the English language. 

It is one of those rare poetic gems, which, like "The Star Spangled Ban- 
ner, "Hail Columbia," "America," and a few others, are sure to shine in the 
diadem of the patriotic literature of America while she holds her place among 
the nations of the earth, or her sons and daughters retain a spark of that 
noble patriotism which is their just inheritance. 

XIV. 

In conclusion, I would here remark it has been my aim to give express- 
ion to my ideas — crude though they may be — of the essential elements of 
poetry, its nature and office, and to show by contrast the difference between 
genuine poetry and mere jingle or doggerel, the latter being mere nonsense 
or rhyme run mad, while the former, whether in the form of prose, blank verse 
or rhyme, is always replete with purity of thought, beauty of language, and 
sublimity of ideas, well calculated to arouse the nobler and more refined senti- 
ments of man's nature. 

In all ages and in all countries, poetry has nerved the soldier's arm to 
strike for truth and the right, and commemorated his deeds of valor; it has 



POETIC REVIEW. 5-5 

stimulated the patriot's zeal, the scholar's enthusiasm, and brightened the 
Christian's hopes. 

The poetry of a people has in all ages marked their degree of civilization 
and refinement ; and it has been truthfully said, he who writes the songs of a 
nation wields a controlling influence over its destiny. It is the language in 
which the heart's deepest, tenderest emotions are expressed, and by which its 
inmost fountains are stirred. 

In giving expression to these crude thoughts, I have hoped to show ; 
somewhat, the importance of cultivating in the minds of the young a taste 
for the study of high-toned, genuine poetry for its elevating and refining in- 
fluence. If I have succeeded in the smallest degree, I shall feel amply paid 
for the labor and thought I have expended. 




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